


Unable Are The Loved To Die

by melanie1982



Category: Emily Dickinson - Fandom, The Vampire Chronicles
Genre: Claudia and Louis, Drabble, F/M, Louisisapoet, Love, Poetry, Unconsummated, non-canon, ridicfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:10:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7308799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melanie1982/pseuds/melanie1982
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The poem is Emily Dickinson's 'Unable Are The Loved to Die.' Credit where credit is due.</p><p>So, this fic doesn't gel with canon. At all. Louis would have had to make a detour to Massachusetts sans Lestat and Claudia in order to meet Ms Dickinson, but I love Dickinson and I love Anne Rice's characters, so I'm doing this, dang it.</p><p>I don't own Anne Rice's characters. I certainly don't own Emily Dickinson. I make no money from this story.</p><p>Here goes.. something..</p><p>That sound you hear is probably Emily rolling over in her grave.. or laughing at me. Either way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unable Are The Loved To Die

During their travels in search of 'their kind,' Claudia tried to draw Louis out of himself. She sensed so much yet to be uncovered, and time felt.. short, though that made no sense. On this particular night, there was an urgency to her questioning. Perhaps Louis sensed it, too, a nebulous doom awaiting them which made disclosures seem less frightening. Whatever the reason, Claudia, as she so often did, got her way.

"Tell me something about yourself, Louis - something beautiful." Dreary nights at sea wore on human and vampire alike, and Louis let out a slow exhale, his heart quickening at a memory long since repressed.

"Do you remember a time when I left you and Lestat for a few days?" Claudia recalled it vividly, how Lestat had largely left her to her own devices. While Louis le chat was away.... 

She nodded. "Where did you go, Louis? You never told us."

"I went to Massachusetts."

Claudia felt a slight gasp escape. She had read of Boston, its rich history and fine architecture. Louis went on.

"You and I share a love of reading. I myself am quite partial to poetry."

"Yes. I can see that. I prefer history, science, things based in the tangible side of creation; you, you are the metaphysique, my love."

Louis smiled. "Exactly. I had become quite enamored with the works of a young woman, a master wordsmith if ever there was one. I went to meet her."

Claudia sighed, resting her chin in her hand. "A romance," she breathed. Poor Louis, always alone, even when in the company of others. If only she could - but it was not to be.

"Her name was Emily. She was rather plain by human standards, but I saw something in her - an inner light, a depth of being, which made her seem.."

"She was beautiful to you, Louis. Isn't that so?"

"Yes. Perhaps in her words, the way she captured the shimmering, fragile condition of Nature and mortality.. I found a sort of kinship. Does that sound crazy?"

"No, Louis. Such souls do tend to find one another."

"Miss Emily was not fond of venturing out, preferring to entertain at home or enjoy her solitude." Here he paused for effect.

"You didn't. You went to her HOME? You DID! Uninvited? Louis! How uncouth!"

"I know. Lestat chided me horribly for it later. I could not help myself; as I walked the streets of her charming town, I found myself conveniently beneath her window."

Claudia loved the moments when Louis the rogue peeked through. He almost seemed to be blushing.

"And? Louis, tell me. I will never judge you." She shook her head, swaying her curls with the movement, emphasizing 'never.'

"Very well. I found her window to be partly open, and so I eased it further, intending only to watch her for a moment, to perhaps leave a note upon her desk stating my deep admiration of her as a poet and as a human."

"But?"

"She was awake. I was utterly taken aback. There she sat, this great poet, feverishly penning a work of linguistic art in the small hours of the morning. I nearly lost my balance."

Claudia gave a squeal of delight at the avoided calamity. "Oh, Louis."

"I don't know how long I sat there; perhaps she felt a chill from the opened window, or some survival instinct warned her of my presence - but at long last, she set down her pen and turned to me."

Claudia felt a pang of fear. "Did she scream? Did she wake the house, forcing you to flee for your life?"

"No. She shocked me. As she stood, showing no fear, she said, 'So. You have come for me.'"

Claudia was on the edge of her seat. "What did she mean?"

"Emily thought I was the Angel of Death. She was a little put out, wishing she had more time to write, but she accepted her fate. I had never seen a mortal so resolute, so calm in the face of death."

Louis smiled at the memory, proud of her, even now. "I explained to her that I was not, in fact, Death - not to her, anyway. She inquired as to my nature, and I explained, the best way I knew how, that I was the bridge between life and immortality."

"No. How did you dare?"

"I felt such an honest, noble soul deserved a true answer. I told her I had read her work, and admired it greatly. Praise seemed to pain her, but what could I do? This was my only chance to express how moving it was, how much solace I took in her depictions of light and color, of Nature and seasons, of love - "

Here, Louis faltered. Claudia smoothed his brow. "It's alright, my love."

He found the strength to go on with the story. "She allowed me to sit, and we conversed for an hour, trying to puzzle one another out, to understand the strangeness, the 'other'-ness each of us possessed. By the end, I believe she was nearly as taken with me as I was with her. Intellectually, you understand. Spiritually."

Claudia smirked. "Of course."

"As dawn approached, I apologized and said I must take my leave. She wondered why, so I told her: I can never see the sun or be touched by its rays, or I will cease to exist."

Claudia had no memory of sunlight. Only books and paintings could give her a glimpse of that world; Louis had known it for over two decades, then given it up, willingly, holding it cheap, discarding it. "She pitied me then, asking if there was any way she could help me."

Claudia wondered if this would be where the story became vague: some generic euphemisms for the mechanics of seduction, followed by a swift change of the subject. "And?"

Louis sighed once more, feeling it all again. "I asked her to keep writing. I asked her to enjoy every moment of her life, of sunlight and darkness, of love and pain, to wring every drop of feeling from her mortal experience. She promised me faithfully that she would, and I know from her continued work that she kept that promise."

He pulled out a small, well-worn volume of her poems. "Will you read this out loud to me, please?"

How could she refuse? Claudia began:

"Unable are the Loved to die  
For Love is Immortality,  
Nay, it is Deity -  
Unable they that love - to die  
For Love reforms Vitality  
Into Divinity."

Claudia stared at Louis as if seeing him for the first time. "You. She wrote this about - "

Louis' face changed, and she stopped. "Oh, Louis."

"No one must know. You must never tell. When she asked me what made me want to go on existing, I told her: love."

Claudia, touched, kissed him on the forehead, feeling its eternal smoothness. "My poet and my muse. How could she not be inspired by you?"  
Then, "I'll never tell, Louis. Besides, there are only two of us in the whole world; who is there to tell?"

Emily Dickinson took his secret to her grave. So did Claudia.


End file.
